


Countdown to Christmas

by Daegaer



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Christmas, Christmas Cards, Demons, Food, Gen, Humor, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:41:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28180014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: Aziraphale is ready for Christmas
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	Countdown to Christmas

Aziraphale finished writing the last of his end-of-year holiday cards (his list was complicated and accurate, the annotations weren't particularly nice) and sat back with the air of a job well done and a plate of Marks and Spencer mince pies.

"Do you think these really are the best ever, or is that just boasting?" he said, adding a dollop of cream to the pie about to meet its doom.

"It's definitely the sin of pride, but they're pretty good," Crowley said. "We're still having the chocolate mousse pinecones dusted in gold for dessert. I like a spot of edible gold, me."

"Each to their own," Aziraphale said. "Frankly, I find I prefer the porcelain to sparkle with simple cleanliness. It's next to godliness, you know."

Crowley looked at him in deep shock. 

"You haven't taken up using the toilet, have you? You angels! You make demons look like a collection of innocent choirgirls."

"Crowley, please. It's just a quiet place to read."

"This whole building is a quiet place to read. Literate mice would find it slightly too silent. Speaking of, how much cheese should I get in?"

"Would it be awful if I said all of it?"

"All the cheese in the world," Crowley said, ticking off an imaginary list. "Right."

"Oh, blast!" Aziraphale said, sitting upright. "I forgot that lovely young man who does those odd little cheeses I sometimes find in Europa Food. A _card_ ," he said as Crowley peered quizzically over the top of his sunglasses. "I should write him an encouraging card."

"You shouldn't, you know. He might keep on making cheese."

"Very funny. Where's my pen? How can pens vanish when one is using them? It's practically demonic!"

"Not my department. Hang on, let me get my jacket, you can use mine."

"No, thank you. I find your pen is terribly impersonal, and the ink smells of sulphur. I need something more traditional. I don't suppose you'd –" Aziraphale smiled hopefully.

"What? . . . No. No way. Do it yourself. You were using a cheap biro and you insult _my_ pen for being impersonal?"

"Go on," Aziraphale wheedled, pushing the mince pies closer. "I won't make you wear a paper hat this year –"

Crowley looked at him, sighed, then shook his wings out. He squeaked as Aziraphale plucked a feather, and carefully stroked his plumage back into order as Aziraphale sharpened the quill and dipped it in ink – where had that damn ink come from anyway? – before writing the final card.

"No paper hat," Crowley said.

"No, a deal's a deal," Aziraphale said, sliding the card into its envelope.

In his tiny kitchenette, the Santa outfit he had ordered in Crowley's size sat waiting patiently in its box.


End file.
